


...and water is wet.

by angel_scum



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempt at Humor, Be the trash you want to see in the world, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes’s Post-Winter Soldier Hydra Revenge World Tour, Bucky is sassy, Creature Bucky, Creature Fic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Humor, I sure as hell ain’t a doctor, Im tired, M/M, Misunderstandings, Multi, NON MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, Nurse Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, Siren Bucky, Snow is bad and nobody likes it, Steve cusses like a sailor and that is the hill I’ll die on, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, a bit cracky but treated seriously, everyones tired, ill go ahead and tag this as funny but don’t be surprised if it SUCKS, pinky promises gone horrible wrong (or right, probably inaccurate medicine, siren au, steve is HANGRY, steve is tired, tags update as i go, this might be funny? I can’t honestly tell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25232125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angel_scum/pseuds/angel_scum
Summary: The one where the Winter Soldier is a siren, has a resting murder face and takes a pinky promise far, far too seriously.“ The asset needed to find and exterminate the leak before returning to its masters. But first, it had to save its remaining handler.The asset was Hydra’s finest weapon, but with this task, it needed help.”Or: the one where Steve comes to terms with his new normal after getting shoved in his trunk on a Wednesday morning.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	1. this safe house isn't feeling very safe

**Author's Note:**

> alternative title: Shape of Water, eat your heart out. We fuck sirens like men, instead of your stanky frog boy.

**Asset**

The asset did not know how to treat wounds on humans. 

For that matter, past digging out bullets and shoving fabric into the gouges, the asset did not know how to take care of itself, either. 

So this - its handler, sticky-faced and stinking of decay with a yellow liquid sluggishly bleeding from the gash across his abdomen - was Very Bad. The asset felt very cold at the thought of a harmed handler, let alone having been the one to _cause_ this. It had tried to salvage it's handler’s health, staunching the blood flow with fabric - 

But unlike the asset, after the act of staunching a wound’s bleeding, its handler had still not woken up. Breathing, yes, but unconscious for the third day in a row. The asset had administered an intravenous nutrient supply, swapping the liquid sacs out like clockwork every time they were sufficiently depleted. Yet even with the resources in the safe house, the asset knew that it’s handler would not survive the week. Furthermore, the asset could not contact Hydra in order to seek medical attention, due to the leak within the organization. 

The asset needed to find and exterminate the leak before returning to its masters. But first, it had to save its remaining handler. 

The asset was Hydra’s finest weapon, but with this task, it needed help.

  
  


* * *

The mission had not gone correctly. 

The target had been prepared, _warned,_ with far more soldiers than originally estimated. They had been prepared and they had utilized their surroundings. A set of charges tripped by an embedded sensor had sent a wall of rock tumbling between the asset (who had been at point) and the rest of Hydra’s soldiers. The mountain tunnel was quick to fill with enemy soldiers, then. The asset had had to dispatch them, wasting time and ammunition it could not afford to spare. Its muzzle was on, because its handler had not deemed the asset’s voice necessary. The mission had been a simple assassination. The assassination should not have required the finesse and brutality that came from a siren’s voice. So, the mask. 

Before landing, the asset had known that there would be Problems with the mission. After all, Hydra had flown it into a remote mountain base, to then be ferried via quinjet to an even more remote drop point. On a mountain. 

And mountains… Mountains were bad. The asset didn’t know why, but it did not like mountains or mountain missions. Well, the asset was not allowed to like or dislike, but if it did…. it would dislike mountains. Mountain missions _never_ went well. 

Knowing this, and knowing that it had been cut off from its voice and handler and STRIKE team, the asset had had to improvise. 

A grenade would punch a quicker escape in the rubble than the asset’s arm ever could. It had three of them, taken from three separate dead soldiers. There was a lull in the battle, the asset having enough time to prepare itself for the next round of soldiers to come down the tunnel. 

Enough time to get itself back to its handler, and its STRIKE team.

Quickly, it had worked to map the supports of the walls and the collapsed rubble. The asset had then secured the grenades into three separate positions, wiring their rings to engage at the same time. Its fingers were deft even through the protective gloving, steady in a way that only a well oiled weapon could be. The asset had made quick work of the new sub-mission.

It had been stepping back, ducking under an alcove with the grenades having been pulled, when the next round of bullets ricocheted off the rock walls.

The asset had been forced to move closer to the rubble in order to disarm the next group of soldiers. 

The asset sustained damage when rubble demolition was enacted. 

The asset, inadvertently, harmed its STRIKE team, its _handler_ when rubble from the grenades flew through the opposite side of the tunnel. It had not known that they had been sheltering against the rubble wall. 

Even now, three days later, the mere thought sent a cold sweat down the asset’s spine. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


The asset did not know how to upkeep itself or a human, but it knew how to steal. Wearing its handler’s dark blue jacket, pack and scarf wrapped to cover its engaged muzzle, the asset walked into a nearby town. City, really, from the crowds. It was easy to blend into the flow of people long enough to lift a cellular device from an unmarked target. 

The passcode was easy to bypass. The directional guidance was less so. The snow was non-ideal for travel, but since night was still an hour or longer away, the asset was unable to rationalize the risk reward of stealing a car for a short commute and minimal time. So the asset walked, following the muted guidance of the cellular device. 

If the asset were able to choose, it would choose to hate the snow, and the cold. But weapons didn’t choose and weapons didn’t have preferences, so the asset walked. 

It doubled back to a fuel station. It obtained, through sleight of hand, food for its handler. (It felt the brush of a memory deep ingrained that told the asset that was not the first time it had stolen food for another.) 

The sensation was uncomfortable, like too long without the water, and left the asset feeling faintly nauseous.

Quickly, it resumed its new sub-mission.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dark was a cover the asset was comfortable in. It knew how to blend into any scenery, but shadows were its second skin.

The hospital parking lot was not well lit. The snow made the asset’s form more noticeable, though not dangerously so. Indeed, it was not noticed as it watched its target walk into the hospital, blue scrubs oozing from under the layers of winter clothing keeping him warm. 

The asset waited until the target had been inside the hospital for forty minutes before moving from its position at the opposite tree line. It approached the rusted car silently, avoiding the few lamps lighting corners of the parking lot. It tried the door handle and -

 _Target appears to be_ … _stupid_. 

The target left his car doors unlocked. Carelessness? Mental ineptitude? 

The asset felt a crawling itch across its icy skin. What if this was a trap? What if the _asset_ was the true target?

 _But_ \- 

It was impossible. All individuals knowing the current location of the asset were dead (enemy soldiers, STRIKE team Delta, original target) or unconscious (handler). It felt like a trap, but the likelihood of the asset being hunted at this point in time was approaching zero. 

With that in mind, the asset did a quick round of the vehicle. It was old but cared for. The asset felt a strange sensation of _similarity_ with the vehicle. It quickly shoved it aside though, _machines do not feel_ , and instead - assured of the car’s safety - climbed into the backseat.

The asset adjusted its position in the back of the target's car. Target would be at work for approximately seven more hours. Hospital shifts changed at 0400, according to the cellular device.

So the asset… waited.

The cold crept into the car. The asset made a mental list of items on itself, then a further list of items back at the safe house. It went over the information it was able to gather via cellular device on Rogers, Steven Grant. 

Nurse - proficient at repairing human damage but not as memorable within a hospital establishment as a doctor.

Small - easily overpowered, less likely to try and fight back.

No family - not as likely to be missed or immediately considered missing. 

Low online activity, spouseless - again, not as likely to be missed.

Overall assessment: high profile candidate for handler maintenance.

With that assurance, the asset withdrew a blade, adjusting its bodily position for optimal fighting in relation to the car’s driver seat. It would not be moving again for four hours and twenty three minutes. 

(This, the asset knew how to do. _This_ mission, the asset could complete. It was created to stalk and kill. It would undo the damage it had wrought on its handler.)

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Steve**

It was pretty nice out, for four in the morning. Not that Steve was complaining. After all, he didn’t really have anywhere else to go (not until he could pay off the bills that were left from his ma). Plus, it was real serene out here. Don’t get it wrong, city life was what Steve knew. It was what his ma knew. But Colorado’s air was better on her lungs. No smog, not much bustle. 

_A good place to die._

Steve pushed the thought out of his mind, bundling his coat closer as he made his way across the dim parking lot. They had both known it was coming, what with first the cough, then the wheezing and the sympathy and well wishing. The reassurance. Then the condolences.

They both had known and they both had decided that for ma, the city wasn’t doing her any good. And all Steve ever wanted to do was something good for his ma. 

Or at least her memory.

Steve was happy to be a nurse, to be able to help others, but sometimes it could be overwhelming. Bringing back memories of his ma withering away. Working the night shift probably didn’t help that - but who was he to complain? He was getting paid better than he would’ve during the day shift.

Steve huffed out a breath, brushing that train of thought from his mind. Never mind the late hour and winter cold, he had a date with a cup of camomile and a warm bath. A bit less ragged with that thought, Steve dug into the pockets of his coat. Gloved fingers wrapped around cold keys, icy even in the warmth of his pockets. 

Steve never bothered locking his car (after all, there wasn’t actually anything to _steal_ in it, and it was a genuine lemon to boot) and was glad enough to just be able to yank open the door and start the damn thing. 

Steve shoved his keys into the ignition, locking the doors and turning around to check the backseat like he always did. 

(Sam had laughed at Steve the first night he’d given the other nurse a ride. “ _You leave the doors unlocked but check the back for hitchhikers anyway?”)_

And. Okay. There’s a difference between getting murdered and getting your box of bandaids and empty water bottles stolen. If someone was desperate enough to steal some nasty clearance rack minion bandaids then Steve would gladly let them help themselves. After all, Steve regretted getting those soulless bandaids as soon as he put the first one on his arm and kept making eye contact with the freaky little cartoon creature. Soulless. And _so_ yellow. (Steve shuddered. The sacrifices you make in the name of debt.) 

Anyway, there was never actually anyone in the backseat, so mute point, _Sam_.

Steve rolled his eyes, huffing at his friend’s paranoia. Then, he froze, his brain painfully slow to register that -

He turned around again, jerking the whole car with the force of it.

He made eye contact with probably the scariest pair of black rimmed eyes on the planet.

Then Steve promptly turned back around again because freaky eyes or not, he needed a _private moment thank you._

Okay.

Okay maybe Sam was right.

Steve managed to suck in some air and calm down the screeching rabbit that currently had taken over his higher brain function, and turned back around for a third time. 

The other - person? - didn’t move. _Sizing me up_? They didn’t speak either, though who knew, maybe all those urban horror podcasts were true and there was just a mouthless creature in his back seat what the -

It blinked.

Steve blinked back.

Then, because his brain was finally coming back online, Steve threw an empty water bottle at it. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


**Asset**

Rogers, Steven Grant, did not, in fact, comply with minimal force. 

Rogers, Steven Grant, was… in the trunk. But that was okay, because the asset had punched a hole through to the back seat for air. (A technique it had appropriated after observing Strike Team Delta Agent: Winslow once punched holes in a plastic container to use for transportation of a live specimen designation: miniature cat.)

The asset had also punched Rogers, Steven Grant. It had pulled the punch enough to _not_ punch a hole for air in Rogers, Steven Grant, instead merely rendering the nurse unconscious. (An act that, if the asset had feelings, would have brought it great relief and appreciation, as Rogers, Steven Grant was very… bitey.)

The asset wondered if it’s original impression that Rogers, Steven Grant was stupid was correct. All experience currently indicated such. Further experience would be needed for affirmation, though.

Stupid or not, Rogers, Steven Grant would fix the asset’s handler. The asset would make sure of that. But of course, _that_ would have to wait until the asset and the nurse were back with its handler.

With that thought in mind, the asset turned the ignition in the car and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. 

Rogers, Steven Grant’s stolen car rolled down the wooded path leading to the Hydra safe house thirty two minutes later. 

(Twenty-seven minutes into the drive, Rogers, Steven Grant had woken up. The asset had heard grunts and movement, but thankfully it had had the foresight to bind and gag Rogers, Steven Grant. 

That, of course, did not dissuade Rogers, Steven Grant from wriggling and grunting.)

During the drive, the asset had reassessed its functionality, and came to the conclusion that its own abdominal wounding had reopened in the proceeding struggles with target: Rogers, Steven Grant. In turn, the exertion had highlighted the asset’s need for maintenance. 

It breathed through the black spots, pain and nausea, ignoring it in favor of bringing the stolen car to a halt and extracting Rogers, Steven Grant from the trunk.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The asset had left its handler in the downstairs safe room (unmarked, behind a linen closet) until it returned. Even with a kicking Rogers, Steven Grant thrown over its shoulder, the asset was able to easily maneuver the safe room open. It paused then, dropping Rogers, Steven Grant on the ground in order to retrieve its prone handler. 

Rogers, Steven Grant’s eyes widened at the sight of the asset’s handler. The asset ignored this reaction, instead taking care to carry its superior into the main space of the basement and place him on a previously prepared couch.

As with any Hydra safe house, this one was equipped with human medical equipment as well as the necessary maintenance materials for the asset. It glanced towards the holding tank, sides aching at the thought of the soothing embrace of the water.

The asset did not want things and the asset did not miss things but if it did, it would probably want and miss open waters. 

The asset had not yet earned tank time. It had a severely injured handler, and until Rogers, Steven Grant was able to operate, the asset would not be able to rest. In turn, the asset could not go back to Hydra until the leak was taken care of. Its handler would know what to do. 

* * *

  
  


**Steve**

Steve recoiled when his silent asshole, carwrecker kidnapper laid a half dead man (IV and all) on the basement’s couch. Why in the hell -

Oh. Right. Nurse.

_Will I die once I’m done here?_

The thought inched into the back of Steve’s brain, leaving an unpleasant sensation behind. Because yeah, rampaging silent knife man with a half dead guy in a basement in the woods? Did not sound like good news. 

Nevertheless, Steve sucked it up because well.. he hadn’t gotten himself out of worse, per say, but he was a nurse and right now this guy in front of him needed help. 

Also, there was the gun trained at Steve’s head… but again, minor details right?

Gun man had taken off his jack and scarf, revealing a frankly more terrifying get-up comprised of tac gear, leather buckles, weapons and a face mask. His long hair half hid icy blue eyes, which seemed to glare enough that Steve wondered faintly if the guy just had a RBF.

Kidnapper guystomped silently towards Steve (which was weirdly terrifying in its own right, because who the hell had the lower body definition to _do_ shit like that silently?) and, gun hefted, proceeded to untie and ungag Steve.

Weird. Steve opened his mouth to make good on his ma’s assumption that he had a death wish, but kidnapper seemed to expect this and went ahead and shoved the gun closer to Steve’s face.

Contrary to popular belief, Steve did, in fact, know when to shut his trap.

Seemingly satisfied, Mr. RBF stepped back a calculated foot and turned his attention to the man, prone, on the couch. 

Steve also turned his attention to the couch. Then he turned it back to Gun man. Gun man, seemingly satisfied that they were on the same page, went ahead and jerked his head in a no-nonsense manner towards couch guy in a way that seemed to convey “go ahead, fix it”. More than that, the man seemed to have a desperate glint in his eyes. 

Steve, always one for taking the initiative, took a step towards couch guy. Unfortunately, kidnapper was taking his own form of initiative and suddenly swayed to the side, blinking quickly as though to clear something from his eyes.

_Spots? Is he seeing stars?_

If this guy passed out, then Steve could make a break for it. Get the police, a real medical team -

The guy lurched to the side, stumbling as he grabbed the cabinets closest to him. ...And promptly taking them off the wall as he went. 

His silence, behind the mask, through the whole event was unsettling. 

Steve could run. His captor was down. But -

There had been a desperation in his captor’s eyes when he’d been trying to communicate. The unconscious patient in front of Steve was obviously important to the man. Important enough for him to kidnap a nurse, and obviously neglect himself in some way to end up half conscious in a pile of medical supplies and manuals… and maybe the patient on the table was innocent? What if Steve leaving meant he died, when Steve could’ve helped? 

_Maybe I can… make a deal._

Steve swallowed heavily. Watching as the man across from him struggled to get a hand under himself. 

“Okay.” Steve stood up, putting his hands up in a calming motion. 

The man on the ground stiffened, eyes trying to trace where Steve was. _Blurred vision?_

“Okay big guy…”

Blood was smeared on the ground where the man had been prone. Or at least, something pretty close to blood. It was darker, more maroon. Maybe Steve was just seeing things in the wrong light.

Steve hazarded a glance at his kidnapper. 

“You’re bleeding.” 

A half lidded stare.

“Okay…” Steve stepped back. “You need medical attention.” It was a simple fact. Blood (maroon or no) needed medical attention.

The guy didn’t respond. Steve took that as a good sign and reached out to touch his side. A knife was pressed against Steve’s throat before he could even reach the man’s abdomen. So maybe… not a good sign.

“I can’t help you with a knife in the neck, buddy.” And Steve sounded a lot more calm than he knew he should. Hell, he _felt_ a lot more calm than he should. The man only eyed him with a terrifyingly piercing gaze for how glassy his eyes were. The knife didn’t waiver, his hand didn’t tremble, even as his other arm wrapped protectively around his core. Suddenly, the man jerked his head behind them. 

“C'mon man… I gotta fix up your wounds before I can finish with that other guy. He’s stable, you’re not.”

The man moved his head - a small shake - and once again jerked his chin to over Steve’s shoulder.

Steve sighed. God, this was not going well.

“Look, _you_ really need medical attention. If you promise not to kill me, I promise I’ll patch you both up okay?”

The guy in front of him was stiff, agitated. Like he wasn’t being understood. 

Steve got an idea. 

“My phone! Give me my phone, we can talk with that.”

The knife didn’t move from where it was pressing lightly against Steve’s carotid artery… but the man seemed to falter. Slowly, he reached a blood soaked glove into his jacket. He pulled out a phone that was decidedly not Steve’s. _At least I got that insurance Sam had been bugging me about…_ Steve mentally grumbled. Because yeah, kidnapping 101: destroy phone. 

Ugh, he hadn’t downloaded any of his photos either.

A change in pressure on his neck made Steve zone back into the moment. Look, life or death or adrenaline or not, he was running on fumes here, alright? 

His kidnapper didn’t seem to agree with Steve’s silent monologue. He just kinda kept watching Steve, slowly extending his hand out. 

No - the phone.

Steve took it gingerly in his hand, only momentarily considering calling 911… but no. He’d be dead or worse before it even got one ring out. Instead, he looked down at the notepad that was open and read:

**Tank.**

Awesome. Okay. His captor was absolutely batshit.

“I don’t know what this even means,” Steve sighed out, suddenly feeling tired. Really tired. Now it was Mean Eyes’ turn to give the incredulous look. 

He jerked his chin again, this time pulling the knife far enough away from Steve’s neck to let Steve turn and follow his gaze. 

In the corner of the basement, shoved between two sets of cabinets was… a giant tank. Like, a fish tank. But scaled up to shark-size or some shit. It took up a large swath of wall space, and honestly Steve didn’t know how the hell he hadn’t noticed it sooner. (He went ahead and blamed the whole kidnapped thing, frankly.)

Steve turned back to the guy. This was his Wednesday morning? This was seriously what his Wednesday morning was turning out to be? 

“Look... I can feed your fish in a minute buddy.”

The guy scowled (and okay, Steve guessed he did have a RBF) and yanked the phone back.

**need to be in the tank.**

Was this guy… god, from the look in the stranger’s eyes Steve could tell he was _serious._

“ _Okay_ but like, let me at least patch you up first.”

The phone got yanked back. Resting Murder Face was agitated.

 **Not human. Need water. Trouble with functionality. Will** **_not_ ** **kill if help.**

This was too weird. But uh, not dying was a plus? It was… this was _so_ absurd. Steve sighed, handing the phone back.

The guy looked at him, and seeming to be satisfied with what he saw, pocketed both the phone and the knife. 

Steve held out his hand, the man heaving himself up easily. 

Damn, his grip was like _steel_.

Silently, Steve slug a heavy arm over his shoulder and wrapped his hand around the guy’s middle, careful of the blood. Even limping, the man made no sound. Steve wondered if it was the mouth mask silencing him - but no, that wouldn’t make sense. Why wear a mask that made it harder for you to communicate? 

But then again, maybe he was quite _literally_ insane. After all, he thought he needed a soak in a tank to heal a wound from… shit, Steve didn’t do that. How long had this guy been bleeding? Had he bleeded in the back of Steve’s car? Jesus. That shit was already setting, at this rate any blood in the upholstery would be impossible to get out.

Okay well whatever it was, Steve was a bit grateful for the creepy mask, because it meant he didn’t really see the guy’s face. Which gave him a higher chance of survival. In theory. Who knew. He’d work it out after he knew his impromptu charges were okay, because Steve was literally obscenely, stupidly prone to helping people like that. 

“Okay buddy, you’ll _not_ kill me, just like you said,” Steve began to ramble, nervousness at the closeness of his kidnapper and the absolutely bonkers situation he was in. “And in exchange, I’m helping you to the tank. Actually, how about we expand on that promise to not kill me, because _that wasn’t a promise_ . How about you _promise_ me to not kill me. Pinky promise, buddy,” Steve said, bringing them to a stop in the middle of the room. His kidnapper turned, sagging heavily onto Steve, to blink slowly. Steve returned the gaze. 

“Pinky promise, you’ve heard of those right?” Steve muttered, frowning at the continued blank stare. The man shook his head.

“Oh cmon, what? You like, okay it’s like where you intertwine your pinkies and it’s a soul bonding type of commitment, man. Seriously, what? Where’d you ever come from with you freaky leather and knives shit and your lack of pinky promises?” Steve was rambling, he knew he was, but seriously what the -

He paused as his kidnapper lifted a gloved hand. Pinky out. 

Steve looked from him to the pinky then back. Completely serious, the man dipped his head, gesturing towards his outstretched hand.

Well. Not like it would hurt to have a pinky promise with his would-be murderer.

“Okay. Pinky promise no killing me,” Steve muttered, wincing as the man’s absolutely _too swole_ pinky crushed Steve’s own birdbone finger. Soon enough he was able to pull his hand away and hoist his weird captor back up into a semblance of standing.

On they went.

Too soon, they were upon the tank. Mr Stank Eyes was lulling, sagging on to Steve in a way that made him wonder if the man was even aware they were across the room.

“Now, how do you feel about stairs?” The tank had a small set of them built into the side, five or six tall. 

The man blinked slowly, a dazed look glossing his eyes as he pulled away from Steve. If he had to put money on it, Steve would bet the man was staying upright fueled only by pure, raging spite. 

Lurching, the man grasped at the guardrail on the stairs, fumbling his way up. Without hesitation, he grasped the edge of the tank and vaulted over. 

Steve blinked a couple times. He was expecting a splash, or even water sloshing over the edge of the tank, but the man disappeared into the brackish water with nary a ripple.

...weird. Too weird. Steve grunted as he pinched himself. No, not dreaming.

Steve stifled a groan, rubbing vigorously at his face, as if that was going to do _anything_.

 _Christ_ what the _fuck._ This had to be the weirdest kidnapping ever. Because now Steve was just standing in front of a bigass fish tank that some bondage kidnapper just slipped into… and what? What now?

Steve considered, for a moment, sitting on the concrete and going to sleep because he was _tired_ dammit _!_ But logic prevailed, and as Mr Murder-Daddy-Mermaid-Wannabe was having his soak (which, god, could he just reiterate for everybody in the back: what the _fuck_ ), Steve turned instead to set his sights on his second, more prevalent issue:

Mr Unconscious Wounded Guy.

Backtracking across the room, Steve came to stand next to the beat up couch sporting an IV drip and some shirtless guy sporting an absolutely _infected_ looking wound on his stomach. Steve muttered one of his ma’s Catholic prayers at that shit, because atheist or no, he would need all the help he could get with this guy.

Oh closer inspection, the wound was, well, inflamed, oozing pus and spanning the man’s full abdomen. Swallowing, Steve took a breath, held it, then huffed a sigh. An IV was a good start, but Steve needed disinfectant, gauze, a needle, and from the pallor of the man’s skin, possibly blood and the supplies for a skin graft - after all, the edges of the wound were looking deadened.

 _Shit_ Steve was _not_ qualified for this.

Grimacing, Steve got up from where he had been kneeling to go in search of supplies. As he approached the cabinets sandwiching The Tank, a thought suddenly occurred to Steve:

Mask guy hadn’t resurfaced for air yet.

Cursing, Steve rushed to the tank, pulling off his shoes and socks as he went. That idiot was in full tactical gear, of _course_ he didn’t make it back to the surface. 

Steve wrestled off his coat, peering down into the murky depths of the tank, trying to see if the body inside was moving or not. He couldn’t see shit, though, because the basement they were in was dark and the tank moreso. Steve heaved himself onto the lip of the tank, bracing against the undoubtable cold, and shoved off into the water -

Only, he didn’t land.

Instead, a hand had shot from the tank to keep Steve suspended, leaning over the edge.

Blinking as though clearing his eyes would make sense of everything, Steve could only stare at the eyes and arm that had broken the surface of the water.

The. Eyes.

Steve blinked again, but began to realize it wasn't, in fact, _Steve’s_ eyes that were the problem. In fact, it was becoming abundantly clear that the other man’s eyes were _staying like that._


	2. how to fix a malfunctioning human

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm not a doctor, so if I'm wrong about any of these medical things.. let's just ignore it? 
> 
> Song of the day Welcome to LA by Oliver Tree

**Steve**

“You’ve. You’ve got something in your eyes.” Steve said, still suspended by a long, black-clad arm over brackish water, staring into very, very much  _ not  _ human eyes.

The man’s eyebrows dipped, the only indication that Steve had been heard. 

Then the man blinked, eyelids covering milky irises, then blinked again,  _ this time with a different set of eyelids.  _ What Steve had originally thought was a milky film was in fact a secondary set of eyelids that seemed to cover the man’s eyes horizontally, meeting at the middle to create the illusion of a seamless film. 

“Huh, so you weren’t joking about not being human,” Steve choked out, voice surprisingly even, considering the fact that his whole worldview had just drastically, fundamentally  _ shifted _ . The - man? Creature? Asshole with the nice calves? Gave a small shake of his head in agreement, face still half submerged under the murky water. Steve faintly wondered if he even  _ needed _ to breathe. Also how the hell was that guy able to move in stagnant water without causing ripples? Inquiring minds wanted to  _ know _ .

Steve’s brain seemed to rattle loose from its spiraling existential crisis at that thought, and he was suddenly brought to the realization that,  _ oh yeah _ , he was still suspended in midair over some cold ass water by an obscenely fit leather merdaddy kidnapper and  _ there was a man currently dying on the couch. _

(Honestly, fuck Colorado. If Steve got out of this alive (and yes, he was questioning if he  _ would _ get out alive, because his safety and wellbeing were currently riding on some frogboy’s  _ pinky promise _ ) he would move his ass straight back to Brooklyn. At least in NYC this shit woulda been a normal C train commute.)

“Okay buddy, can you put me down?” Steve said, trying to leverage his upper body back over the lip of the tank.

At that, Steve’s kidnapper lifted from the water and (to Steve’s slight indignation and moderate arousal, if he was being completely honest with himself) effortlessly, single-handedly put Steve down on the top step. Steve stepped aside as Mr RBF slipped over the edge of the tank, all signs of imminent fainting spells having vanished. 

At a loss for something to say, Steve huffed out a breath. “So is that why you wear the mask?” 

The other man just blinked at him, tilting his head to the side.

“Yknow, cus you’ve got gills under that or something? What even are you?” Steve squinted. Probably not a mermaid, right? Maybe a government experiment? 

Another blink. Obviously this guy wasn’t one for talking. Steve was halfway to wanting to press the issue but it was becoming abundantly clear that a) the two of them were uncomfortably close, to the point where Steve could smell the salt water dripping from the other man and b) couch guy still needed immediate medical attention. 

Steve took a step back, carefully looking away from the kidnapper’s steady gaze. Which, yeah, in all the fuss it somehow seemed to slip his mind that  _ he was still being held hostage. _

“Okay, well yeah. Let’s take care of couch guy. You don’t happen to have any medical supplies, do you? Because otherwise you’re going to have to run up and grab the minion bandaids from my car, and you and I both know that those got thrown all over while you were, y’know  _ kidnapping _ me.” 

For Steve’s troubles, (because yeah, he was still fucking salty about the whole kidnapping thing) he received another blank stare, followed by a tilt of the man’s head towards the cabinets directly adjacent to the tank. Obviously somebody wasn’t smelling what Steve was selling, and completely ignored the comment. 

“Okay, thank you for not even acknowledging that you  _ kidnapped me _ ,” Steve muttered, sarcastically. “I’m so glad the guy who shoved me in the trunk of my own car has zero remorse over the whole thing.” 

This comment was met, unsurprisingly and  _ infuriatingly _ , by a completely nonplussed gaze from Steve’s kidnapper. Steve willed himself to have an ounce more of patience, because even if he didn’t condone kidnapping and assault and destruction of property (the property in question being his poor, aerated car)... well he had a heart. He had eyes. He could tell by the way Mr RBF was once again hovering anxiously over Couch Guy that there was a reason for this all. (And Steve… well Steve just kept seeing his ma on that couch.)

Shaking the thought from his head, Steve yanked the cabinet doors open. 

And paused.

Because yeah, that was a  _ whole ass hospital.  _ No wonder Mr Moody didn’t bother calling 911. There were enough prescription pills just on the bottom shelf to kill a goddamn elephant. 

Any last threads of illusion that Steve might just be a roundabout good samaritan helping out some panicking fishman’s estranged lover (or whatever, Steve had seen  _ Shape of Water _ just like every other asshole who lived through 2017, he didn’t judge) vanished out the window. No normal person would keep  _ rib spreaders  _ in their medicine cabinet. 

Okay.

Okay.

Okayokayokayokayoka-

_ Breathe _ .

Steve took a lungful in through his nose, counted to five, then gushed it out. Okay. He could do this. It’s not like he was going to die after helping couch guy, (Mr Moody seemed pretty into the pinky promise and all… right?). Steve just had to get to work. He would deal with whatever else was going on here (because something was fish, no pun intended) after doing this basement surgery. 

God. What was his life? 

Steve shrugged that thought off and began pulling out items - gauze, antiseptic, disinfectant, nitrile gloves, surgical stapler. All the trappings of a Bad Idea.

“Anywhere I can wash my hands?” Steve said, bringing the armful of supplies and setting it on the coffee table that had been pulled abut to the couch. His kidnapper nodded towards a narrow hallway on the opposite side of the room. Steve nodded in return and, a bit surprised that he wasn’t going to be shadowed into the bathroom, went off to find a sink. Idly, he wondered at why he  _ wasn’t  _ being watched while roaming the house. Since they were in a basement with no windows and maybe foot-wide vents, kidnapper was probably not concerned about escape. But still, Steve could easily try to hide or arm himself. 

Was that watery jackass really just that stupid? ...or was he just  _ that  _ confident in his own fighting skills? (Steve decided his skull was already bruised enough to answer that question, even if the spitting mad alleycat that counted as the voice in his head begged to differ.)

At the end of the hall, Steve came upon a lone door. Assuming it was the bathroom (since it was the only door and all), Steve went ahead and entered. Upon opening the door and flicking the lights, Steve was unpleasantly surprised to find that, yes, it was a small bathroom, but more than that it was a small bathroom sporting a  _ disgusting _ array of beach themed towels and toiletries. Steve sucked it up. At least it didn’t have potpourri. That shit gave Steve  _ hives. _

Realizing that he was probably going to be in for a long morning, Steve went ahead and took the liberty of relieving himself. (To be honest, it was almost worth the whole kidnapping business to be able to press down the novelty conch shell tank handle. _Almost_.)

Coming back into the main floor of the basement, Steve decided that there was no use in avoiding the inevitable. He moved to the coffee table, ripping open a fresh pack of nitrile gloves and pulling them on. His kidnapper seemed to have not moved an inch from where he’d stationed himself at the head of the couch while Steve was away. Weird, but whatever. 

The room was silent, save for the steady drip of the man’s clothing. (And how the hell was he comfortable like that? That suit looked like chafe city.) 

“So what are you a part of? Mafia? Cartels? Wait, let me guess: freelance assassin.” At that, Steve got an expected level of exactly  _ zero _ reaction, and the higher part of his brain function seemed to come online again. Of course, if Mr Moody told Steve what he was a part of, then he’d have to kill him. Steve, personally, was rather impartial to not being killed  _ quite _ yet. (Really, especially, not by some Little Mermaid Murderman. Steve was more into a freak accident or maybe alley fight gone too far as his Way Out, personally. Being murdered for being pesky to some dripping wet guy twice his size with legs for days was… Well, okay, that tracked actually.)

Shaking his head of  _ that _ disturbingly telling train of introspection, Steve went ahead and began to prep the coffee table. Turning, he went to undress the prone man’s wound.

Luckily, Steve hadn’t had dinner (technically breakfast) yet, or else things would’ve gotten a lot uglier than they already were. 

Huffing out his second prayer in as many hours, Steve got to work. 

* * *

**The Asset**

The asset stayed vigilant of its handler as Rogers, Steven Grant operated. Periodically, the asset would recalibrate its arm, a tic that was telling towards the asset’s need for maintenance. Maintenance which would have to wait until the asset’s handler was repaired. 

Though the sun was not visible, the asset was able to track the passage of time as Rogers, Steven Grant first flushed, then cleaned, then clipped, then sealed the handler’s wound. 

As the time was reaching approximately ten forty seven in the morning, Rogers, Steven Grant sealed the handler’s gauze with one last swath of medical tape. 

“There. Look, I have got to be honest,” Rogers, Steven Grant said, skin having taken on a greenish tone tell-tale of exhaustion. “This man needs a real doctor. Even in a hospital he would be at risk of not making it through this type of injury and infection.”

The asset, understanding a threat when it heard one, readily pulled the PP-91 KEDR that it had stashed under the pillow currently cradling its handler’s skull. Rogers, Steven Grant was threatening the asset’s handler. It was a direct violation of Designation: Pinky Promise. And that, in turn was  _ unacceptable _ for Rogers, Steven Grant to dare attempt to go back on Designation: Pinky Promise, Subdesignation: non-termination mutual aid. 

Rogers, Steven Grant’s hands shot up at the sight of the gun. Good, let the handler-threatening coward know the wrath of the Winter Soldier. “Whoa, whoa, okay buddy, okay, no need for - what _ ever _ that is, god was that stashed under the pillow? This whole time?” 

The asset blinked, tilting its head forward in affirmation even as it kept the submachine gun trailed on Rogers, Steven Grant’s glabella. 

“Look, buddy, I’m not threatening this guy, I’m just saying it seems like he is in need of real medical care, and might not… y’know. Make it.” Rogers, Steven Grant lost his vigor as the sentence carried on, his shoulders losing their posturing hunch. 

Assessment: advisement, nonthreatening. Wrath of the Winter Soldier no longer necessary.

The asset gave a sharp nod, replacing the PP-91 KEDR back under its handler’s pillow with a motion that, in a human, would’ve been lovingly. 

Rogers, Steven Grant put his hands down after a moment. Then the small human proceeded to rub at his face. Then, acting outside of the asset’s understanding of human protocol, promptly scream-groaned into his hands. 

...odd. 

Rogers, Steven Grant appeared to be… malfunctioning?

The asset blinked, wondering vaguely on protocol regarding malfunctioning humans. Maybe malfunction would pass. 

But, increasingly, it seemed as though Rogers, Steven Grant had extended lung capacity, as he did not lower the magnitude or intensity of his scream-groan. Vaguely, the asset’s refined hearing caught the phrase “-hat the FUCK, UGh,” among others. 

Realizing that the asset would have to correct Rogers, Steven Grant, the soldier racked its brain for human grade correction actions. The asset was often subjected to correction via fire hose, so given the fragility gap between human and siren -

The asset acted with swift efficiency.

Rogers, Steven Grant abruptly stopped malfunctioning when corrected with water administered via wash bottle. 

The asset blinked in the face of the small human’s rather acute indignation. (Though it was unconcerned. Indignation was within the normal emotional range experienced by humans accompanying corrective actions.)

“God, okay asshole, I’m not a housecat! If I’m going to stay here and take care of your guy here, we’re going to have to discuss some ground rules,” Rogers, Steven Grant proceeded to say, his face turning a concerning shade of pink-red as he tried to rub off the water.

The asset, though wondering now at the true effectiveness of his correction, couldn’t help but appreciate the pink-red hue. (Well, it  _ would’ve _ appreciated the pink-red hue if that was something assets were allowed to do.)

“First, no squirting me with shit, unlike you, my cousin ain’t a fish. And y’know what? While we’re on the topic of ground rules, no more headshots, because frankly that wasn’t cute this morning in the car, and I could’ve gotten a lot worse than a headache from it. Are you even listening?” Rogers, Steven Grant had moved closer to the asset during his speech, and now stood expectantly in front of it. 

A single nod. Designation: Pinky Promise, edit: no more headshots - not cute. 

Rogers, Steven Grant seemed to deflate at this, the flash of anger melting from his feature. 

“Okay, cool. Just,” he sighed. “You don’t happen to think I can leave yet?” 

The asset shook its head, negative. Handler maintenance still required.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I figured. Okay, well in that case, you got a bed?” 

A… bed? The asset had many weapons, but a bed was not considered an appropriate addition to its arsenal. Though certainly its memory was limited, so maybe at an earlier period a bed would’ve been -

“Y’know,” Rogers, Steven Grant interrupted, “like where I can take a nap? I just did my first surgery on a guy in some shitty basement outside of Colorado Springs. I’m beat.”

Oh,  _ sleep. _ The asset did a quick mental catalogue of safe house E-753-delta. Bed location, quadrant 3, upper level. Unsuitable storage space for Rogers, Steven Grant. Momentary lockdown required for retrieval of target: bed.

New sub-mission acquired, the asset went ahead and pulled a ziptie and secured the small human to a nearby cabinet. 

Rogers, Steven Grant seemed to pause to process the asset’s new sub-mission. 

“Wait, no -“

The asset, though servant to humans, was not subservient to  _ all  _ humans, and therefore did not need to stay for Rogers, Steven Grant’s new malfunction. It left. Indeed, it left so swiftly that the asset was already in quadrant 3 by the time Rogers, Steven Grant had finished his sentence.

The asset did not have opinions or feelings regarding things, but if it did, it would consider being able to say  _ no _ to a human a good,  _ good _ feeling.   
  


* * *

The asset allowed Rogers, Steven Grant to rest on the obtained bed (moved to occupy the center of the safehouse basement) until seventeen hundred hours. By that time, Rogers, Steven Grant would have had four REM cycles - enough to leave the small, angry human restored. (And, possibly, less angry.)

During the human’s downtime, the asset checked the perimeter of the safe house, self-administered asset-grade supplements and administered another restorative period of time in the tank. Though its wounds had healed significantly during the previous emergency submersion period, the asset nevertheless understood the benefits of taking another submersion period to increase functionality as much as possible while awaiting its master to awaken. Additionally, the asset understood the necessity of human susinence, and therefore took the liberty to procure food from the safehouse pantries for Rogers, Steven Grant. (It deliberately did  _ not  _ plan to waste such precious food on Rogers, Steven Grant as the food it procured from the station earlier that day, code name “Reese’s” (an item much coveted among Strike teams Beta, Delta and Epsilon). That food was procured for the  _ handler _ , who, unlike Rogers, Steven Grant, did  _ not _ malfunction.)

The asset had very minimal exposure to the proper means of waking humans. Indeed, its exposure consisted mainly of buckets of liquids getting splashed on the asset, or firm kicks to the torso. In addition, it had observed many soldiers and operatives waking with alarm clocks, shouts or firm mattress topplings. But Rogers, Steven Grant was neither a siren nor a soldier, and therefore the asset was under the impression that the small man would need a more gentle hand used when woken. 

The problem was that the asset was, decidedly,  _ not _ a gentle hand. 

Ever.

Thusly, it took a longer period of time than originally anticipated for the asset to devise an operation: wake-up. 

Thankfully, operation: wake-up was an easy affair that consisted, mainly, of a firm nudge to the bed that Rogers, Steven Grant was currently ziptied to. 

The small human grunted something that sounded suspiciously like “not now Sam, this is the part where he gets  _ naked _ ”. An odd greeting upon awakening, but the asset would never claim itself to understand the whole width and breadth of humanity. 

Then the small, angry human promptly rolled over onto his side and bubbled a bit of droll in a way that indicated to the asset that maybe Rogers, Steven Grant was  _ not _ , in fact, awake.

Operation: wake-up appeared to have… failed. 

_ Failed. _

The asset was nothing if not impervious to failure, and therefore decided that operation: wake-up needed to adapt supplementary measures. Nay -  _ drastic measures. _

The asset left the room. 

A moment later, armed with seagull print towels and a freshly refilled wash bottle, the asset was prepared for a second attempt at waking the tiny, angry human. 

The asset aimed one shot to Rogers, Steven Grant’s glabella, then double tapped his manubrium. The man in question promptly sputtered, hissing like a cat at the wetness. Seeing that the human was successfully awake, the asset stepped to his side (deliberately ignoring the loud, expressive and extensive explicatives being aimed at the asset) and instead benevolently extended the seagull towel towards the man. 

Rogers, Steven Grant, upon noticing the asset’s movement, trailed off and narrowed his eyes. If looks could kill, the asset might’ve finally been put out of its misery. Nothing so wondrous happened, though, and instead the small human reached out and all but ripped the towel from the asset’s hand. 

Operation: wake-up status: success. 

“What did I say about water the last time, asshole?” Rogers, Steven Grant hissed while vigorously rubbing at the now soaked front of his shirt. The asset did not respond, instead merely standing patiently while waiting for the nurse to say something more productive. (The asset would in fact have preferred to respond, an urge it itself was surprised by. After all, the impulse to talk back to a human had been all but burned from its persons. Thankfully, its mask was still in place and therefore any correction worthy statements were left unsaid.)

“There better be food in this for me,” Steven muttered as he tossed the towel to the side and reached to begin tugging uselessly at the ziptie circling his wrist. “And you oughta untie me. You got a knife I could borrow?” 

The asset did, in fact, have a knife. Nevertheless it was easier to just reach out with its still-gloved metal hand and snap the flimsy plastic. 

Rogers, Steven Grant seemed to pause at that, mouth hanging open. The asset ignored this reaction, and instead took the scraps of plastic and moved to toss them in the nearby garbage bin. Rogers, Steven Grant got to his feet as this was happening. By the time the asset had circled back around, now armed with MREs pilfered earlier for the feeding of the small human, Rogers, Steven Grant was busy checking the handler’s wound. 

“He’s not looking too good. Seems to have a fever,” the nurse said, glancing sharp blue eyes to train on the asset’s face. For the first time in longer than the asset was permitted to remember, it truly wished it could take the mask off. It needed to have a coherent conversation with the small human. It was not familiar with fevers in humans, only knowing that when the asset was with fever, it often meant a short but acute period of recovery. 

Quickly laying the MREs on the coffee table and gesturing for Rogers, Steven Grant to partake in them, the asset reached into its tac gear. It quickly fished the previously obtained phone from an inner, waterproof pocket. Opening the notes app, the asset began to type. 

**Treat Fever.**

It held the phone out to the small human, who was halfway through tearing an MRE to shreds. The man looked at the message, then said, “Do you have ice? That’s all we can really do right now, aside from keeping him hydrated.” Steve paused, biting his lip. “This man needs a doctor.”

The asset took the phone back, scowling at this update. 

**Ice pack in medical cabinet. You are a doctor.**

Rogers, Steven Grant scowled at this, glaring at the asset. “No, asshole, I’m  _ not _ a doctor. I’m a  _ nurse.” _

The asset was quicker to type its response this time.

**Who went to medical school.**

Rogers, Steven Grant’s teeth audibly clicked together as he ground them. Human appeared to be… agitated. “I am  _ not _ getting into this right now, buddy. Now make yourself useful and open me one of these packs while I get the ice.”

The asset, understanding a dismissal when it saw one, merely pocketed the phone and proceeded to prepare the MRE. 

The human, meanwhile, began to work on the asset’s handler. Soon he was coming back over, ice packs newly propped around the handler’s body.

The asset silently held out an MRE. Rogers, Steven Grant took it, a hollow look in his eyes as 

he began to eat. 

The nurse paused, halfway through chewing his tenth bite, to eye the asset warily. “Are you going to eat?”

The asset gave a sharp shake of its head. Assets do not eat  _ human food.  _ Rogers, Steven Grant narrowed his eyes but took another bite.

“It’s because of the mask, right? So I don’t see your face.” 

The asset, not understanding, blinked at the small, strange human. It was not because of the mask, it was because assets do not eat human food. 

“So that’s a no?” Rogers, Steven Grant pressed, evidently new to the workings of assets. The asset merely blinked, feeling a vague urge to shake Rogers, Steven Grant so that whatever was clogging up his brain and making him ask  _ annoying fuckin’ questions  _ would dislodge and give the asset a moment of peace.

...Or, at least the asset  _ would _ want to do that if it felt annoyance. Which it didn’t.

“Okay buddy you’re a real piece of work. C’mon,” The little, irritable human said through a mouthful of military grade mush. “I’m helping you and your dude over there, the least you can do is answer a question with like, a real sentence.” 

The asset, faintly mesmerized by how absolutely  _ loud  _ Rogers, Steven Grant was able to smack his lips while chewing  _ and  _ speaking, merely blinked in response.

Rogers, Steven Grant narrowed his eyes, opening his mouth as if to protest, but was cut off by a rattling gasp from across the room. Startled, he jumped up, MRE spilling across the floor. The asset followed the small human’s movement as he rushed over to the couch. 

Shadowing him, the asset watched as Rogers, Steven Grant hovered over the handler, quickly pulling on a pair of gloves and shoving the handler on his side. The reason for this movement became increasingly obvious as the handler began to seize, his body shaking in convulsions. 

“Help me make sure he doesn’t fall off the couch!” The nurse said, moving to untangle the man’s IV. The asset nodded, a wash of cold fear running down its back at this new development. 

The handler convulsed, shaking the couch and frothing a mix of burnt brown and white from his mouth. The asset watched, a sense of fear unlike any other forcing its mind to stay chillingly sniper-focused. Rogers, Steven Grant was doing something else, but the asset didn’t bother to care what. It had to focus on its mission,  _ keep the handler on the bed. _

Yet just as suddenly as they started, the convulsions stopped.

Rogers, Steven Grant leaned over the man, pressing his fingers to his pulse point. His face looked grim as he quickly pulled away and turned the handler’s still body over. He then began to do - chest compressions, panting with the exertion of the act. “Get me a towel,” the nurse said, and the asset moved quickly to comply.

Coming back with another seagull themed hand towel, Rogers, Steven Grant quickly grabbed the towel and wiped the mess of bile and blood from the handler’s lips and began to administer CPR. 

This went on for… an indeterminate amount of time. The asset was helpless in a way it could not comprehend. It watched as Rogers, Steven Grant grew more frantic, checking the handler’s pulse again, then continuing the compressions.

Then the asset watched as, a long stretch of time later, Rogers, Steven Grant wiped his mouth and sat back on the coffee table. 

The nurse did not need to say what the asset knew to be true.

The handler was dead.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All typos and errors are mine because we die like men, without betas. Also brownie points to anyone who can guess how the asset will respond to THAT...

**Author's Note:**

> song rec of the week: Hey by Pixies. Also all issues with this story are mine because we die like men (without betas)


End file.
